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Source : boyirl

Vintage Coke cans, 1980s

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Source : semi-hip

Agnès Varda’s Sans Toit Ni Loi

Agnès Varda’s Sans Toit Ni Loi

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Source : belatarrr
Source : earlyware

rebel8:

Dead Prisoner’s Tattoos Preserved in Formaldehyde

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Source : teratol-orgy
raveneuse:

Gabriele Stötzer, Verschmelzung, 1983

raveneuse:

Gabriele Stötzer, Verschmelzung, 1983

(via extraterrestrialhitchhiker)

Source : raveneuse
Source : facebook.com

i read recently that
we bleed and bleed and bleed
through cracked skin,
tearing old scars with rosy waves
and reeking of rancid mucous,
staining our attempts of normalcy,
until courage draws the hands inwards,
and we clench double-fisted the core,
and we ask for peace.

what is normalcy,
after living so long with veins trapped
flowing with vibrancy in warm homes
that no longer expect you?

so i cut, with rusty scissors that only puncture,
these murderous veins that
drained the blood meant for me.
and i cut and cut,
without the anchors
pulled back only by thin, blind trust.

not many people find nemesis in mountains,
or salvation in the snow.
not many people know that god
is an idea, just a word,
that god is really just inside of you.

i cut my anchors and floated away,
got carried away, tried to numb it away,
but life can’t be pushed away,
memories can’t be burned,
you try, you try, and that’s the fun.

you float and anchor yourself, this time
with braided rope, something less fragile
than your own livelihood,
and they become your homes,
anchoring yourself with loose knots
to their smiles, their emanating welcomes.

when you scream to the sky
“i cannot, i cannot, i give up,”
your words don’t just fade away.
it’s the desperation, it’s the hope,
and the universe turns a curious glance.
we are not alone,

but you knew that.

and after you shout and after you are heard,
after you are helped, you learn
it wasn’t your time,
we all have a death wish,
but we are not alone, and it’s not always about you.

and when you go on living,
after so much conviction it was all a lie
when you are presented with another day,
it’s just rather greedy to throw it all away.

heathenhippy:

“As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.”~ Henry David Thoreau
Source

heathenhippy:

“As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.”
~ Henry David Thoreau

Source

(via loudthinkersoftspeaker)

Source : heathenhippy
themodelburnbook:

New York was like a shitty dream that I couldn’t wake up from. I was living in a factory in Bushwick Brooklyn situated between a slaughter house and the garage where they rinsed out Manhattan’s garbage trucks. I would skip over stomach churning puddles of water—foamy and white with animal fat—on my way to Jefferson station in the morning to catch the train to the city with my Latin American neighbors. I had no agency in NY at the time. So I was up every day scared as fuck negotiating the sidewalks of Manhattan in a pair of clearance sale Alexander Wang boots that I had purchased with my credit card, praying I would someday see that money returned to me. I was 27 years old pretending to be 22 and I wanted to kill myself every day. The only thing that got me thru those times was a marijuana delivery service and this barely-legal Swedish male model who lived so deep in Chinatown, I needed to speak Chinese to get directions back to LES. I did manage to have a lot of friends in Manhattan that loved me but I kept my distance from them because I didn’t want any of them to know how shitty and alone I truly felt. Also, our friendships were just expensive to maintain. The thought of dividing a bill at a restaurant in the East Village between 15 people had me waking up in a cold sweat, and I couldn’t afford $60 of Molly-water on a fucking Tuesday. I had Brooklyn problems. I was inspecting the spaces between my floorboards for weed crumbs and rationing from my bulk stash of mint-choco Clif bars which were my main source of nourishment. Sometimes I would spend entire days laying on the bed in my windowless cubbyhole, completely catatonic. Tears streaming from my hot cheeks before soaking into my matted hair and the bare mattress beneath me. One of my 6 roommates, Donnie, would often knock on my door and wonder aloud what the fuck was wrong with me. But he couldn’t understand. He was a 25 year old graphic designer who had his entire life ahead of him to succeed in his field. I had a year tops. I was fucking trapped. I couldn’t quit modeling because I need to pay the bills that I had accumulated from modeling. I wasn’t in the financial position to give up modeling for an unpaid internship in fashion, and I was completely under-qualified to take any paying position. I felt totally and utterly fucked. I didn’t know what was going to become of me. I had supposedly made so much money modeling. I had the statements to prove it. But where was it all? Expenses. Travel. Accommodations. I was making money on paper, but I had nothing to show for it. I was the working class poor, but Lord was it ever keeping me thin. 

themodelburnbook:

New York was like a shitty dream that I couldn’t wake up from. 
I was living in a factory in Bushwick Brooklyn situated between a slaughter house and the garage where they rinsed out Manhattan’s garbage trucks. I would skip over stomach churning puddles of water—foamy and white with animal fat—on my way to Jefferson station in the morning to catch the train to the city with my Latin American neighbors. I had no agency in NY at the time. So I was up every day scared as fuck negotiating the sidewalks of Manhattan in a pair of clearance sale Alexander Wang boots that I had purchased with my credit card, praying I would someday see that money returned to me. I was 27 years old pretending to be 22 and I wanted to kill myself every day. The only thing that got me thru those times was a marijuana delivery service and this barely-legal Swedish male model who lived so deep in Chinatown, I needed to speak Chinese to get directions back to LES. I did manage to have a lot of friends in Manhattan that loved me but I kept my distance from them because I didn’t want any of them to know how shitty and alone I truly felt. Also, our friendships were just expensive to maintain. The thought of dividing a bill at a restaurant in the East Village between 15 people had me waking up in a cold sweat, and I couldn’t afford $60 of Molly-water on a fucking Tuesday. I had Brooklyn problems. I was inspecting the spaces between my floorboards for weed crumbs and rationing from my bulk stash of mint-choco Clif bars which were my main source of nourishment. Sometimes I would spend entire days laying on the bed in my windowless cubbyhole, completely catatonic. Tears streaming from my hot cheeks before soaking into my matted hair and the bare mattress beneath me. One of my 6 roommates, Donnie, would often knock on my door and wonder aloud what the fuck was wrong with me. But he couldn’t understand. He was a 25 year old graphic designer who had his entire life ahead of him to succeed in his field. I had a year tops. I was fucking trapped. I couldn’t quit modeling because I need to pay the bills that I had accumulated from modeling. I wasn’t in the financial position to give up modeling for an unpaid internship in fashion, and I was completely under-qualified to take any paying position. I felt totally and utterly fucked. I didn’t know what was going to become of me. I had supposedly made so much money modeling. I had the statements to prove it. But where was it all? Expenses. Travel. Accommodations. I was making money on paper, but I had nothing to show for it.

I was the working class poor, but Lord was it ever keeping me thin. 

(via watevacunt)

Source : themodelburnbook